after favouring Taylor with a searching and inquisitive glance, "I feel convinced I have seen you somewhere before."

"Not very improbable," was the rejoinder, "if you have in earlier days visited the Globe or Blackfriar's theatres."

"That have I; and now I have divined you. You are the man who used to play the Prince of Denmark.”

"The very same.

"I remember you perfectly. You played very well-very well indeed. I can only call to mind one fault throughout your whole performance, and that was in the fencing scene. Excuse my mentioning it, but I was only surprised at the time that your adversary, the ill-begotten Laertes, did not run you through again and again. You fence very carelessly, are much too energetic, and continually throw yourself open to the thrusts of your antagonist. By-the-bye, I was too much engaged just now to pay much attention to your play, but I saw enough to assure me that you were at the same game again. To be plain with you, I considered you a dead man. Take my word for it, you only owe your life to Colonel Fairfax's interference, or yonder gentleman's courtesy." Taylor took the self-constituted authority's opinion on the demerits of his sword-play in very good part, and smilingly returned

"It is an easier matter to murder heroes in blank-verse than in sober reality. Fortunate for mankind it is so. If all the men, women, and children whose deaths I have directly or indirectly been the cause were to rise up in judgment against me, my lot would be still less enviable than it is even at present."

"I understand by that you find acting unprofitable. Well, then, why not throw away the buskin and take to a good sword in its stead. King Charles is now more in want of soldiers than buffoons. Not that fighting is remarkably productive. However, if we fast occasionally, so also do we feast. A good stroke of fortune brings you into the land of plenty. And whenever the king gets his own again, your services will be their own exceeding great reward, unless his majesty, which is not improbable, should follow foreign precedents, and in his prosperity forget the friends of his adversity. But even then you are not left without resource; you have but to leave England for a few years. Men may tire of players, and the poor actor starve for want of employment. It is not so with your man-at-arms. If one prince or people grow weary of the losing game of war, there is no difficulty in finding a new master, who has set his fortune on one cast; and before he tires or is ruined 'tis twenty to one but your late master returns to his old habits, and will be glad to purchase your valuable aid for a consideration. In one of your plays somebody says, Motley's your only wear. By your own account the man who so spoke was either a liar or a fool. For charity's sake we will suppose the latter the true case. No, no, believe me there is no patrimony

equal to a good sword, nor can your son desire a better inherit

ance."

"Your rhetoric," returned Taylor, in answer to the above harangue," is, I am afraid, entirely lost upon me. A player I have lived and a player I shall die. If Melpomene deserts her son, she shall not be able to reproach him with ingratitude. Besides, I am not ashamed to own that I possess not that fiery, overweening ardour which is absolutely necessary to make a good soldier of fortune. I had rather imagine and depict death-struggles than court them. However, if I cannot enrol myself in the gallant band you belong to, I can, I think, find you a younger and more mettlesome rccruit. Here," he continued, pointing to me, "here is a young gentleman who, though he confesses to not possessing sufficient nerve to face calmly the displeasure of an ill-bred, or ill-tempered audience, doubtless fancies he has sufficient courage to stand unhesitatingly the fire of an opposing enemy. Do I not read your thoughts aright, Mr. Osborne ?"

"Yes," I replied, "I am in a position which makes the proposal most seasonable, most acceptable. To a gentleman in search of a profession any prospect, however gloomy, inust be welcome."

"You are young," said the trooper, enumerating aloud what he considered my qualifications for my prospective profession as he surveyed me with the same critical eye with which an experienced dealer in horseflesh would a young jennet, "unencumbered with flesh, straight, cleanly built, and apparently active. Of course you are a cavalier heart and soul: every gentleman, present company always excepted, is."

"Your reasoning might have convinced me," I answered," had I not seen Colonel Fairfax."

"Oh, he is a rara avis ! But here comes the sack; so gentlemen to your work. A health to King Charles, and confusion

gad! I was just about to tread on forbidden ground again; and so we'll change the toast. Here's to the noble science of war, and its professors all over the world.”

No one thought it worth while to demur to the sentiment, though none, excepting the professor and perhaps his companion, could fully enter into the feelings which prompted it. Perhaps the toastmaster himself saw its impropriety, for he soon after proposed that the wine shall in future circulate without any accompanying watchword; a resolution the others were not slow to agree to, there being hardly two opinions the party held in common, nor could any toast be proposed which would not be offensive to some or other member of the company. By this means harmony was preserved, and before we separated the night had considerably advanced into day-the day that was to see me enter the world in a new character.

THE DEAD MOTHER'S SUMMONS.

BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY.

[In New South Wales, if a mother dies leaving a young child, when the corpse is deposited in the grave, the father or next of kin places the living child in it, and throws a large stone as a signal for the grave to be filled up. They attempt to justify this act by asserting that it must have suffered a worse death had it not been interred with the mother.]

A GLAD young voice was strangely blent
With the dirge's solemn flow,

As the funeral train swept darkly on
With measured steps and slow;
For stricken by no timeless throb
Of sorrow or of fear,

A joyous living child was borne
Beside its mother's bier.

Borne not to swell the funeral train,
Nor yet to grace the dead,
The path his infant footsteps traced
They never more might tread;
The love that nurtur'd him was mute,
The arm that shelter'd, cold;
He might not stay when these were gone,
His life with them was told.

And ever as that death-song pour'd

A mournful music round,

Was heard above its wailing breath
The same rejoicing sound;

Nor ceas'd when came a sudden change

Upon its spirit wild,

And louder tones burst forth, address'd

To that unconscious child.

"Lift up thy voice, lift up thy voice,
In gladness lift it still;

Thy bounding heart may never learn
What store life hath of ill;

A mother's hand is beck'ning thee,
A mother's voice is heard,

Charg'd with a mighty power to save
In every burning word!

"Come forth, my cherish'd one," it calls,
"Come seek the skies with me;

There was but one on the darksome earth,
One mother's heart for thee!

PERIODICALS OF THE PAST.

No. IV.

WE resume our notices of the periodicals of a past period. The subject of our present reference is the "Imperial Magazine." It was long a popular periodical among a certain class, and for several years enjoyed a large circulation. It was started in 1819 by Messrs. Fisher and Co., the extensive publishers of Newgate Street, from whose premises it emanated until it was discontinued about ten years ago. Its price was a shilling. It was remarkable for the superior quality of its portraits of distinguished men of the present day. Each number was embellished by a portrait of some eminent man, or some other attractive engraving. It was under the editorship of the late Samuel Drew, from its commencement in 1819 until his death in the beginning of 1833. Mr. Drew was an extraordinary man. He was entirely self-taught. Until he reached the age of manhood he followed at Austell, Cornwall, his native place, the humble calling of a cobbler. And yet for many years before he died he was regarded on all hands as one of the first metaphysicians which the present age has produced. His first work on "The Immortality and Immateriality of the Soul" would be considered a wonderful production from any man; as the work of a man who had well nigh spent all his life at the last, it is a most singular book. The plan of the "Imperial Magazine" was to blend literature with theology; and it assuredly carried out its plans with great success. Probably the editor of this periodical magazine may think all the more favourably of the "Imperial Magazine" from the fact of his having made his literary debut in its pages. This was in 1823, and since then he has been one of the most voluminous writers of the day.

Among the features of the Imperial Magazine there was the space devoted to memoirs of men of genius. In the catalogue of these, on looking over the volumes about twenty years since, we find one of a very curious kind. We commend it to the special attention of our readers. It is well worth perusal. The subject of the memoir is

RICHARD ROBERT JONES.

Among the eccentric characters of the present day, more extraordinary than the subject of this memoir. is not more singular than his talents are remarkable;

there are few His appearance and the success